The violet eyes under the dark brows and high, white forehead regarded the pleading face rather sternly.
He said:
“Then your aunt did not know of your—your—” hesitating, then half smiling, “your ‘lark’ that night?”
Molly grew hot and angry under that peculiar smile.
“I don’t see what you’re smiling at,” she said, crossly. “No, she doesn’t know; and—if—you—are—a gentleman—you will not betray me!”
He flushed as the slow, emphatically uttered words fell from the girl’s lips, and answered, curtly:
“I claim to be a gentleman, Miss Barry, but I can not comprehend the motives of a lady who goes on such a madcap race by night unknown to her guardians, and under a fictitious name!”
The sarcasm in his voice stung deeply. Molly turned crimson and exclaimed, resentfully:
“It is not a fictitious name—it is my own—my step-sister’s name, and I have a right to use it if I choose!”
Cecil Laurens queried, gravely: